The Yearning
by BelleCelestyn
Summary: Under the instructions of the Valar, Legolas is sent to Earth to identify and destroy a new evil that threatens to reach the elves in Valinor.
1. The Mosin Nagant

Under the instructions of the Valar, Legolas is sent to Earth to identify and destroy a new evil that threatens to reach the elves in Valinor. Duty before heart and the lives of many on the balance, Legolas must move quickly to ensure the success of this mission but when the lines between good and evil are not so simple anymore and an unexpected attack disrupts the balance of the two worlds, is Legolas capable of doing whatever necessary to do what is right? Adventure/Thriller, Rated MA

Chapter 1: The Mosin Nagant

The Mosin Nagant 1891-30. A fine rifle. A bit too long and bulky for the tactically-minded enthusiast but cheap and extremely reliable. Mass-produced by the Soviet Union during the world wars to fight Germany, Finland, Japan and fellow Russians, it was a powerful tool with a rich historical background. It was one reason why he kept it after being listed as a beneficiary of his father's estate. In fact, aside from a box full of old family pictures and 1940s music records, the Mosin Nagant was the only item he had ever received from his estranged father, the late senior Dan Goldberg.

His mother, Ms. Goldberg, an assistant to a chief executive for a big-time Hollywood producer, was dead-set in discarding the item. Calling it an instrument of death, it's sole purpose to inflict undue pain and injury, Ms. Goldberg condemned it as a weapon of terror. Used by the government for controlling the general population and for invading foreign countries, Ms. Goldberg believed possessing the firearm created willing accomplices out of both senior and junior Dan Goldberg.

'Criminals use guns to hold innocent people hostage!' Ms. Goldberg had ranted when Dan hesitated about destroying the firearm.

'I'm just holding on to it for the moment,' Dan had placated, 'Just until I can sell it and get my name taken off the register.'

Dan Goldberg Jr. didn't dare point out that she was actively protected by a pistol-carrying security guard. Ironic as it was, Dan had shrugged, not caring enough to enlighten his aggrieved mother of that little fact. To demonstrate the lunacy of that contradiction, of how the hired bodyguard carried a potentially destructive weapon for her safety, was pointless. And to be quite frank, she had a legitimate point; since the first weapon- a rock- ever to be used for murder, humans had since engineered more effective and lethal weapons. Dan was more of the belief that to eradicate wickedness and aggression from the face of the planet, one would have to radically change a component of human nature. He wondered if voicing his opinion would help make Ms. Goldberg understand but decided against it; it was better to leave his mother alone and happy. Not willing to become the target of her endless pestering, or be unjustly accused of ignoring her advice, Dan decided to drop the matter entirely. He never did mention the subject of rifles again, especially not in her presence.

She reminded him of a proverb he once read. Written on a Post-it note slapped dead-center of his friend's family-size refrigerator, it read "It is better to live in the corner of a roof than in a house shared with a contentious woman." Dan wasn't a religious man but seeing the proverb hand-written by a man in the midst of a bitter divorce with a woman fighting for sole custody of their children, it made a long-lasting impression. As much as he now affiliated the proverb to his friends' situation, his mother now reminded him of it too. Yet, he couldn't be too critical. He couldn't be critical of the woman who raised and protected him throughout his younger life. Despite the obvious faults, it was the tough New Yorker quality that added character to her personality. Even he had to admit, Ms. Goldberg was a formidable woman. As a divorced, single mother who did not get rich without fighting tooth and nail for her position, it was her bull-headed stubbornness and biting frankness that endeared her to him. When she loved, she loved wholeheartedly and without restraint. Her self-assurance and determination never gave Dan a cause to doubt Ms. Goldberg's ability to provide him with the most basic of needs when a child. She provided security, and security was never in want because it came in the form of money, love, stability, lawyers, food and a roof over his head. Weapons for the use of personal defense, for the causing of physical harm against assailants, were never meant to become a part of their lives. And he wondered, would violence be justified when it came to protecting himself from imminent death? And if this was true, would possessing a firearm- even just brandishing it in the hopes of scaring troublemakers away- be justified?

Torn, Dan looked at the rifle in his hands. Upon receiving the Mosin Nagant seven years ago, learning how to use the rifle- how to load it, clean it, and shoot it- did not interest or excite him. In general, the subject of safety and security rarely crossed his mind. Call it being naive, faithful, careless, or apathetic but there was no reason to believe that his life would ever be in danger, much less in this present situation. To think that it wasn't going to be his law degree from Columbia, his savvy skills of persuasion, or even his fifteen hundred dollar wristwatch that was going to save him was laughable. It was so absurd he was offended. This rifle, this one-hundred dollar, eighty year old relic was going to save his life... if only he knew how to use it.

Now here he sat, in the corner of his redwood-furnished closet, stumped and panicked beyond comprehension. He knew exactly how he got into this unfortunate situation. As a legal advisor to _El Don_, a big-time businessman with affiliates in the State of Arizona and south of the border in Sonora, Mexico, he knew too much. And a conscientious man who knew too much was not a good combination.

Pressing his heated forehead against the cold floor, he laughed at his bad luck. Of all the people in the planet, it was he who overheard a group of scheming men plot the movement of explosives into _El Don's_ house. Well-intentioned and fearful for his client's life, he had travelled immediately to Brentwood, California to discuss the horror of this discovery. If only he had known better.

The explosives were not meant to kill _El Don_; it was to be delivered to South Vermont Street before landing at its final destination at W. Pico Boulevard and S. Figueroa Street in downtown Los Angeles.

A loud crash at the front door had him jerking from his position. Clad in business attire, their faces obscured by the jackets blocking Dan's view, three men armed with pistols moved swiftly into the premises of the condo. Exhaling as they bypassed the closet, he pushed back towards the protective shadow of his corner, away from the flimsy door that shielded him from sharp, prying eyes.

_Maybe I'll make it out alive_, he thought with desperation as the dark-clad figures fell out of sight. Wasn't it always like this in Hollywood films? Weren't dishonest men redeemed of all culpability through acts of great heroism? With the exception of most horror films, the little man always survived.

_And_, Dan Goldberg Jr. hesitated with apprehension even as he tightened his hold on the long rifle, _just this once._ Just this once will he use the rifle; he didn't want to kill anyone, he just wanted to protect himself. And it wasn't like he intended on keeping it afterwards; he planned on submitting the firearm to the local police station with the understanding that it would be destroyed.

With his plan of action justified, a new-found hope that was hot like fire engulfed his heart and he shuffled from his kneeling position into a crouch- determined to sprint towards the door at the first given opportunity. But even he was susceptible to momentary bouts of self-delusions. Out of nowhere, two pair of hands grabbed roughly at the cuff of his shirt and dragged him out from the darkness.

"Wait! Please, wait!" he cried out, upturned hands beseeched them to halt even as a booted foot shoved his face roughly against the floor.

"Can't do that, Dan. You know how this works." Ernesto. If Ernesto couldn't be easily distinguished by his black _vaquero _hat, then that sleazy, heavily-accented voice removed all doubt.

"I can still help!"

"You can't; you almost called the police. You were _this _much of destroying everything, _mi amigo_." Ernesto's foot whipped out to catch Dan on the chin with surprising force. "Snitchers are marked for _life_."

"Please don't, you still need me!"

"You think it's forgiven and forgotten? You think _El Don'_s gonna forget?"

"I can explain-"

"You wanted money, women and fame; he gave it to you. He invites you to his home and _this _is how way you repay him?"

"Oh god, oh god!"

"You're not one of us." Ernesto softly commented, lips twisted in disgust, "You can't handle this and there's only one way out."

The impact of those words hit him square on the chest. So this is how he would meet death. On the floor, bleeding from the forehead like a spurred dog begging for scraps of food. There was no way out. Grimacing at the sudden release of the bone-breaking hold on his neck, he wondered rather humorlessly if appealing to their better nature was of any use.

Wary, he turned to stare at two men standing before him, Ernesto and his assistant Chavo. The third man could not be seen. Ernesto, while marginally tolerable when _El Don_ was near, was not a safe or happy man to be around. It was a blessing that Ernesto did not attend legal advice meetings but from what he had seen, only two men were capable of controlling him: _El Don_ and _El Guero_. And from what little he knew, Chavo was a grand-nephew and assistant to Ernesto; enthusiastic, fresh and willing to please, Chavo was easy to tolerate even if his loyalties lay completely with _El Don. _When those two were together, Dan knew they were doing a job. It wasn't until this moment that he truly understood the nature of Chavo's and Ernesto's work; they were cleaners for _El Don._

With his life already on the balance, there was nothing else he could lose. If death was certain, then he will go down fighting. And his thoughts went back to the Mosin Nagant laying partially hidden under the shadow of tailored suits and silk shirts from within his closet. So this was the great paradox of courage. Men, when driven into desperation, will take great risks to live another day. Comforted by this thought, that better men survived unbelievable odds through sheer will of strength and a reckless disregard for their own lives, he sprung from his kneeling position in a desperate grab for the rifle.

It took a single shot to stop his body in its tracks. The man smacked against the floor in a crumpled heap, brain matter splattered about the floor even as blood seeped out like the slow-moving current of a stagnating swamp.

"_Pinche cabron,_" the man called Ernesto lamented, "he wasn't going to make it out alive with that piece of shit."

"It's not loaded." Chavo commented as he examined the rifle. "I don't see any ammo either."

"What is it? A .22?" Ernesto chortled in derision as he kicked the downed man.

"It's a Mosin Nagant 1891-30 rifle with a 7.62x54mmR cartridge. Shoots at a velocity of 2030 feet per second and has an energy capacity of 1644 per foot-pound at 300 yards. While it's not fully-automated like your AK-47, the sight adjustment for a M9130 can go up to twelve miles, have a service life of 100 years and counting, and kill a man from a different zip code." The third man coolly stated as he holstered his black pistol into his pocket.

"Hey Lex, I think that's why the boss likes you. You're a living, walking encyclopedia!"

"Never mind that, you idiot!" Ernesto angrily rebuked Chavo for the admiration before giving Lex a scathing glare. "We could have taught him a lesson. We could have given the police a little gift!"

"Wasting time avoiding the inevitable?" Lex dismissed the man's outrage as he started towards the door.

"You know damn well that he was mine! Can you _imagine_ the look on cop's faces- can you _imagine _it? We could have cut him up into pieces while he was STILL alive! If the boss didn't think you'd be able-"

Pausing near the doorway, Lex turned to level the embittered man with a warning, "What _El Don_ and I discuss is not for you to question or speculate." The heavy silence that lingered in the air was cut short by the man's sharp, clear voice "I am here for damage control; the last thing _El Don_ wants is you leaving clues for the police to trace back to him. So _do__n't waste my time_."

With that softly spoken threat, Lex walked away.


	2. The Doctor

Ch 2: The Doctor

It was an interesting group of men that lounge about in the richly decorated sunroom of _El Don's _main house. Out of all the beautiful mansions Doctor del Moral ever had the honor to behold, this particular sunroom was his favorite place to visit. Octagon-shaped with a high hardwood ceiling, the sunroom featured fixed window panels at knee-wall, diagonally arranged ceramic tiles of blue, gray and golden hues, fixed ornamentals, and Bar Harbor sofa, loveseats and chairs. It was an all-season comfort with an outstanding view of a flourishing lilac and camille garden. Aesthetically pleasing to the eye, he would describe it, made all the more interesting by the seven rough men that it momentarily housed.

Seated on the Bar Harbor wicker chair, Doctor del Moral watched with increasing fascination as Lex gently picked at the chords of a guitar, playing a traditional melody from what del Moral could guess.

Lex was quite the enigma in this small circle of cut-throats; standing at an impressive height of six feet three inches, with bright blue eyes the hue only seen in winter storms, ash blond hair lengthened on top and cut short on the sides to back, and an imposing countenance made all the more grave by the small frown that habitually graced his face, Lex was undeniably noticeable. There was something pristine about this strange man; he was like newly-fallen snow made all the more sharper and brighter by the reflection of a blazing sun. Yet even this breath of fresh air was not enough to cloud his obscure and questionable background.

Wearing a long-sleeved collared shirt, straight black jeans and worn boots, Lex fitted in this group of similarly dressed Hispanic men almost perfectly. As the only American with no ties to Mexico, Lex was more commonly referred to as _El Guero_ by onlookers. With no prior criminal records or convictions, he was ideal for _El Don_. Clean as a slate and unlikely to catch the attention of federal agents or state police, _El Guero_ had more liberties and freedom of movement than most everyone in this group. His affiliation to _El Don_, if ever revealed, marked him as a potential threat to national security. Call it what you will, a domestic terrorist or a big-time criminal, it was still laughable; a single term could not begin to describe what _El Guero _was capable of. It was this ability to adapt so easily though, an ability to undertake each task with ease of mind and effort, that gave cause for hesitancy in Doctor del Moral.

Just who exactly was this Lex? What was his last name? How did _El Guero_ come to know _El Don_? Could he be trusted when so little was known about him?

Doctor del Moral was not blind though. _El Guero_ had a very valuable skill set that _El Don _needed and demanded from a right-hand man.

Fueled by greed and a need for power, the demands of international and transnational operations of this magnitude required men made of tough skin and even stronger minds. This was a cutthroat business with betrayal, lies and competition as the holy trinity. Everything could be lost in a single day. Some, like Dan Goldberg, lost it with a single bullet.

_Tsk. _Five days ago Goldberg had promised to personally guide del Moral on a trip to downtown Manhattan. Apparently, those particular skyscrapers with the most breathtaking views of the city were for VIPs only; celebrities, White House officials, defense contractors, hired associates and big-time contributors received the most leeway in these buildings.

With a heavy sigh, Doctor del Moral shook off any feelings of remorse and resumed a watchful gaze on the relaxed figure of _El Guero_.

Forming meaningful friendships, no matter how well compatible and likeable a man might be, could not be afforded. _El Don_ had a strategically-placed gun to everyone's head, an even faster trigger finger and a knife on the throats of family members. If one of them made the wrong move, _El Don_ did not shy away from eliminating the source to save his own skin.

Doctor del Moral did not begrudge him of that. _El Don_ demanded infallible loyalty and del Moral was more than willing to provide it at the cost of five-hundred grand a year. To accept an outbid though, at the cost of betraying _El Don,_was not healthy and it was actively disapproved of; if staying alive was of utmost importance, this route was not advised. Those who did make a run for it were never forgiven or forgotten and they were always hunted.

Shaking his head, Doctor del Moral accepted Goldberg's death as an unfortunate but expected loss. Death was often the price of crossing the devil; unless dethroning the king to become the next big cheese was the intent, it was better to remain on the boat as a passenger. And Doctor del Moral was a happy passenger enjoying the view from his end of the rope so long as he did as required.

"Hey, _Guero _what are you playing there? Some country hick song?" Ernesto called from where he laid on the sofa.

The solemn man failed to react to the taunt but his fingers quickly moved on the strings of the guitar and he softly sang.

"_Anda caliente el cartel, _  
_al respeto le faltaron_  
_hablan de un tal heisenberg, _  
_que ahora controla el mercado_  
_nadie sabe nada de él, _  
_porque nunca lo han mirado._

_el cartel es de respeto y jamás a perdonado_  
_ese compa ya esta muerto, nomás no le han avisado_"1.

"_Órale__._" Ernesto gushed, laughing joyously at the unexpected entertainment, "_El Tejano canto un corrido!_ _Un Americano que no solo habla Espa__ñ__ol pero sino que también puede cantar!"_2.

It was rare moments like these that allowed del Moral to examine _El Don's _most trusted affiliates. It was not common for all seven men to be found in the same area; it was even rarer to hold a meeting involving this great number of people. They were all so very different in character and mentality that del Doctor could not guess how he would be of any valuable service to someone like Ernesto short of treating a wound or alleviating an illness.

Each individual had his separate job and responsibilities that required his undivided attention; no one was allowed to interfere with the other but it was not uncommon, if necessary, although not wholly encouraged either, that they worked together.

Usually, Doctor del Moral preferred to work alone. Tolerating the company of others was doable but that did not make del Moral a happy camper. Working independently and without restraint gave del Moral a large sense of freedom; being cumbered down by group, or pulled back from completing his job, was not something he wanted or needed. It was a bit like kissing ass really. One wrong comment and your partner was likely to fly in a tirade at the abuse, infuriated by the insult. Come to think of it, del Moral supposed this was how politicians felt most of the time. Only the true egotist could love exposing himself to that sort of treatment.

Out of everyone, Ernesto was a fairly easy man to understand. Violence was the question and 'yes' was the answer. Contrary to popular belief, it was the man's volatility that made him so predictable. Expect the unexpected from this angry, vicious man. On the other side of the spectrum, a tight-lipped and composed man like Lex was harder to decipher; there was never knowing what he taught, how he felt, what he believed in or what he was capable of. Doctor del Moral paid little heed to this variable though; as long as Lex was not distracting him with mindless and meaningless chatter, or breathing down his neck, there was nothing to complain about.

"I think it was meant as an insult." murmured Ricardo.

Doctor del Moral contemplated the suggestion before nodding in agreement, impressed; _El Guero_ was not known for holding back veiled insults or replying with sarcastic remarks when it came to Ernesto. Unable to quirk back the growing smile, del Moral gave Lex an appraising look- something that went completely unnoticed by the recipient. It was how the insults were delivered that usually transformed Doctor del Moral into a giggling schoolgirl. The impassive expression with which those words were spoken belied _El Guero's _true thoughts. With a straight face and country drawl like that, del Moral couldn't fault Ernesto for assuming no ill-will.

"Or a thinly veiled threat." del Moral offered to the confused Ernesto.

"What do you mean?"

"I'm saying, it's a warning for you to back off."

"What do you mean?" Ernesto rounded the doctor, "It's a _narcocorrido_."

"No shit!" Ricardo pointedly agreed using his knife to gesture towards Lex, "That's the whole point, Sherlock."

"Don't call me stupid, hijo de puta-"

"_Gentlemen_, we have bigger things to worry about," del Moral groaned in dismay. The last thing they needed, particularly in this beautiful room, was an argument between two fully-armed men. "I have a more important question to ask. And I'm sure all of you want to know since I'd bet it crossed your minds already... What is this meeting about?"

Ricardo was the first to volunteer an answer, "Who knows? It has to be big though."

The rest were not so willing to provide answers. Exasperated, Doctor del Moral turned to Ernesto; with enough gentle nudges and compliments, Ernesto was a willing participant. "What do you think, _Guapo?_"

How Ernesto ever came to be called _Guapo_, del Moral did not know. Maybe the mother made the erroneous habit of calling Ernesto 'guapo' and the endearment just stuck. It wasn't anything unheard of, naming a child after a certain attribute; pet owners had that unusual habit of calling their pets the most outrageous things. In this case, the mother had a terrible sense of humor, was blind, or had hoped the name would rub off on him.

If you ignored the killings, the sexual deviousness, the torture and heavy gambling losses, Ernesto was not all that bad; he could be succinctly described as the big bully who vied for the attention and approval of a hard-to-please father. Those random acts of unspeakable atrocities were executed in the name of _El Don_ and it was Ernesto's heavy-handed warnings that illustrated how far he was willing to go for him. It was a pity that Ernesto failed miserably in living up to his self-imposed goals; he went overboard with the bloody mess and _El Don_ wasn't happy about it. And this was where _Guapo'_s source of anger and jealousy against Lex stemmed from; _El Don_ trusted _El Guero _more than his own son, Ernesto.

Before Ernesto could answer, a personal secretary to _El Don_ arrived. Nodding towards the group of men, Miss Montoya presented each individual with a packet explaining the boss's absence, "Good morning, gentlemen. _El Don _is most grateful for your patience and speedy arrival to the Brentwood premises but laments his inability to attend this meeting."

When none raised any concerns or questions, Miss Montoya continued without much preamble, "_El Don_ was kind enough to bestow me the responsibility of providing you with details for the next assignment."

"We all have the same job?" Ricardo asked, dubious.

"To answer your question: No. Working together in a team, each of you have a specific assignment that must be accomplished. Certain situations may require longer commitments and, when appropriate, you are allowed to terminate each case when seen fit. Within these folders you will find airline tickets booked for tomorrow morning and valuable documents that will ensure your success. Burn them afterwards; heavy repercussions will be handed down if you fail to do so."

"We're going to Mexico?" Doctor del Moral waved his airline tickets to catch Miss Montoya's attention. "That's a risky move don't you think? Booking a flight using our personal information..."

"To be precise, your destination is Mexico City, Mexico. There will be two groups; each comprising a different route and mode of travel towards said destination. No worries, Doctor; as long as you remain inconspicuous, you will remain unhindered. The first group will take the most direct route from Los Angeles International to Phoenix Sky Harbor and finally Juarez; comprised of del Moral, Chavo, Ernesto and Lex you will settle down at the St. Regis Hotel until _El Don_ invites you to the _hacienda_. Ricardo, Jaime and Batista comprise the second group; you will leave from San Diego International to land in Albuquerque; there you will receive a package before heading down to the Capital of Chihuahua and finally flying towards Mexico D.F."

Miss Montoya paused before adding, "Any questions?"

"Yeah," del Moral asked with some confusion, "is this a regular operations run? I don't see how I fit in this."

"Gentlemen, you're going to find out that this is much more than you bargained for."

"As if I don't already have a death sentence over my head." Ernesto muttered darkly before hollering with impatience, "Cut the crap, speak plainly."

What did _El Don _want from them now?

"Let's just say that _El Don_ has made a discovery of monumental proportions and everyone will be fighting to get to it first."

* * *

1.

The cartel's running hot because

They weren't getting respect

Talking 'bout some 'Heisenberg'

Who owns the market now

No one knows the man

Since they haven't seen his face

The cartel's about respect

And they ain't forgiving

But that homie's dead

He just doesn't know it yet

2. Listen up! _El Guero_ sang a ballad! An American who doesn't only speak Spanish but also knows how to sing!


	3. Insane

Ch 3: Insane

"What do you have for me?"

They were inside an old abandoned warehouse. On the floor, metal poles and rusting iron rails were littered about in messy piles forever to be forgotten. Scavenged to its barest frame, a large and heavy machine lay partially broken on the floor- undoubtedly abandoned for the next industrial entrepreneur to dispose with his own time and resources. It was a government-owned building, the result of a tax lien for the private owners' refusal to pay property and income taxes. In a fit of anger, at the audacity of local government securing the building from further use until the man paid his taxes, the owner relinquished his legal status as the proprietorship of the building and drove out of state. With a building now in its possession, accountable for its liabilities, operation, and maintenance, the government instead shut the place down. With only rats the size of cats, cockroaches over an inch long, and colonies of ants burrowing deep into crevices, there was no tell-tale signs that anybody lived in this cold, dark place or intended to use it.

At the southwest corner of the dark, spacious warehouse, away from the dim light of the moon that penetrated through dusty windows, were two men. In truth, there was one man and a young adult.

The man was an investigator for the sheriff's department in Los Angeles County. The young adult standing before him, who was presently occupied with examining the wooden gate of a broken freight elevator, was an informer. At nineteen years of age, the kid was technically an adult but Detective Johnson couldn't help but notice how much younger-looking the kid really appeared; the barely visible mustache on the youngsters' lean face didn't help dissuade the overall impression either.

While the detective was thick with muscle from good health and nutrition, the kid's short and lean figure was more the result of neglect; his growth and development retarded by a lack of proper nourishment during his younger and early teenage years. In all cases, the kid was the poster child of a broken family. With nothing but two younger sisters raising their own children in single-parent households- unknowingly continuing the destructive cycle for the third generation- the kid was headed down the same destructive path until Johnson had stepped in.

Having caught the kid tagging walls with gang-affiliated graffiti, Johnson had since established a working relation with him. It wasn't until the third arrest, the same day the boy turned eighteen, that Johnson had a change of heart for the trouble-maker. Not knowing how to contact the detective, the kid had broken the glass windows of a private business with the intent of getting arrested. His request to the arresting officer? To speak with Detective Johnson.

A moment passed before the kid finally shrugged, "Not much."

"Come on man, you can't give me something better than that?

At the protest, the kid gave his undivided attention to the detective; he didn't want to be here- especially on such a short notice- but the detective had insisted on one last meeting before the end of the month.

"No, I can't."

"Bullshit," the detective reiterated.

"I'm telling the truth! We don't know nothing. Not until we cross."

"What _is_ there deep south of the border?"

"I _told_ you already; _I don't know_. I'll get back at you when I figure this out."

Frowning at the kid, and wondering if he was hiding an important piece of information, the detective replied with a warning "You better do it right quick. I have the boss breathing down my neck and all I have is dirt."

"Hey, man... I'm neck deep in this shit and all you care about is your stupid fucking neck."

"Okay, okay. Why don't you calm down a bit?" the man laughed, "I'm just having a little fun busting your balls."

"Man, don't tell me to calm the fuck down. I'm tired of your shit. I can _easily_ stop talking to all y'all if y'all keep pissing me off."

"You know you can't." Johnson smiled at the kid, hardly offended by the boy's aggressiveness; it was this fighting spirit that kept the boy alive and quick on his toes, and Johnson was glad for it. "If you're not done in by someone on our side, your boss will get to you first."

"Fuck you." the kid shot off, pacing across the floor in agitation, "What ya gonna do? Freeze my bank account? I've got nothing and it's not worth shit if I'm dead. Now hurry the fuck up, I've got better things to do."

"It'll go real fast if you cooperate so stop 'yer bitching."

"Give me one of those cigs; all this's making me nervous."

"There. Need a lighter? No? Okay, first question."

Taking a drag from the cheap cigarette, the kid nodded for him to continue "Shoot."

"Goldberg. Does that ring a bell to you?"

The kid shrugged.

"Okay, let me be clearer. I have videotapes of _your_ boss talking to this Goldberg several times before Goldberg's death. Was it a hit?"

"Don't know," the kid offered another shrug, blowing his smoke towards the high ceiling, "Things just happen; you know how it is."

"No, I don't. Please, clarify."

Taking a long drag more the cigarette, the kid explained with a few short sentences. "We don't take it personally. It's how we work. We can chat with the boss today but die tomorrow 'cause we made a wrong move."

Shaking his head in disbelief, refusing to believe that the boy could be so casual about death, the detective stared hard at the boy. "It's that easy, huh?"

"For people who do it for money, yeah."

"You do know that's insane, right?"

"Getting paid to do shit?" the kid asked with palpable confusion before pointing out, "People do it all the time."

"Writing a check payable up with your life, I mean."

"It's not insane," the kid defended, offended by the notion that his pains and efforts working for both _El Don_ and Johnson might not be taken seriously, "Men fight for their countries; some get killed but people call it patriotism."

"It's more honorable."

"It's a no god-damn difference when you have bodies piled up in stacks ready to be buried six feet under."

Johnson did not reply; there was no way of debating a statement when it was true. Concerned and interested by what the kid might say though, he instead asked, "You regret it kid?"

The kid gave a questioning look before warily allowing, "Sometimes."

"Why'd you do it, kid?"

"That's my business."

"There's got to be a reason-"

"There ain't."

"Oh, come on." Johnson rolled his eyes to the ceiling, balefully ignoring the glares sent his direction. Frustrated by how paranoid and easily embarrassed the kid could get, and refusing to back down, the detective continued forward. "A kid your age could be flipping burgers at McDonalds and STILL go to college-"

"Hey, leave it alone-"

"- part-time. Hell, you can get your associates in three years if you-"

"Hey," the kid spat on the floor, clearly annoyed by the man's insistence and agitated by the intrusive questions, "It's all I'm good at! I ain't worth shit. And I sure goddamn can't go around making seven fifty an hour when there's mouths to feed and bills to pay."

_Finally_, the detective thought with a smile, _an answer_.

"You know we can keep you safe, right? We can even find something nice and stable for you."

Embarrassed by the momentary display of weakness, of having just admitted how useless and stupid he believed himself to be, the kid dismissed the reassurance with a wave of the hand, "I have a job to finish and I sure can't just walk away when I'm working for all y'all."

Nodding at the subtle reminder, a faint warning to stop treading unknown territory, Johnson continued back on track, "Are you telling me that Goldberg made the wrong move?"

"I'm telling you, I don't know shit." The kid replied with relief, grateful that the sappy little interrogation about his life was cut short.

He didn't like feeling weak; he'd rather be pissed and annoyed than ever sharpen the double-edge knife of insecurity and self-doubt. Anger was identifiable, it fueled him with energy. It was something he could easily handle and it was a hell lot better than feeling helpless and useless. All this talk about 'education' and his 'future' only made him feel queasy because school was not for him; fixing cars, driving, playing poker and running errands for _El Don_ were what he did best.

"The boss don't tell me shit."

"Who could have known?"

"Shit, man. The right hand man? I don't know."

"Okay, okay. Just this last question… What's in Greenwich Village?"

"Goldberg."

"What about Goldberg?"

"It's where he grew up. Don't know exactly what house though."

"Don't worry about that; we'll find out everything about him."

There was a moment of silence before the kid finally asked, "You done now?"

"Sure bud. Just make sure to keep me updated."

The kid flicked the blunt of his cigarette into the man's cup, not giving much thought as to whether the man finished drinking it, before shrugging into his well-worn jean-jacket. Not knowing if he should shake the detective's hand in farewell, the kid instead shuffled across the warehouse and out the old, abandoned building.

_Smart-thinking meeting him in a place like this, _the kid thought as he walked down the dimly lit street, noting how peculiarly ominous-looking the large structures appeared on a cold, dark night.

Shuddering at a cold breeze, he hunched closer to the warmth of his jacket as the street lights flickered several times before slowly dimming into complete darkness.

The kid paused. And he listened.

It was...

There was nothing.

It was the nothingness of absence—nonexistence—a wormhole where the vastness of space and time overlapped into chaos.

It wasn't the silence commonly found in the glades of Washington the moment before pheasants were shot down nor was it the silence of Oklahoma's rolling plains where he had often played Hide-And-Seek with his sisters. It wasn't the familiar silence of waiting inside a car on a hot summer day, with only the few occasional _vrrroomm_ sounds of passing trucks on the nearby highway. Hell, not even earmuff hearing protectors atop ear plugs could achieve this!

No. This was different. This was a silence where the absence of chirping crickets in the swamps of Louisiana was so deafening it almost hurt.

And it felt like manning an empty vessel with no fuel or oxygen in outer-space.

It only lasted a few seconds but the kid shuddered as goose-bumps ran down the back of his neck.

_Fuck_.

With his left hand on his hip, ready to unholster his pistol, the kid pressed against the corner of a building.

_Maybe they traced me_, he thought as he scanned for a sign of life, waiting for someone to jump from the safety of a dark corner or an alleyway. _Out of all places to hold a private meeting, _he thought again but with some added annoyance, _why would the old scallywag chose an area like this?_

Blaming Johnson for making him attend a meeting on such a short notice, the kid scornfully berated himself, disgusted by this onset of sudden nervousness.

And not knowing what to do, he laughed.He laughed at the absurdity of it, at the irrational fear of something he could not see or hear, but a slight tremble under his feet gave him pause for reflection.

The tremors began faintly but increased in power as the earth shook, rumbled and swayed. Kneeling down for better stabilization, the kid waited as the earth shook. Not even thirty seconds later did he finally rise from his position, unconsciously holding his breath for any aftershocks. When nothing happened, the kid gave a shaky laugh and made a run towards the car parked under the bridge, all the while wondering with amazement that the building didn't bury him in a crumpled heap.

* * *

Del Moral remained still for a moment before cracking a smile, "That was something."

"Do you think there'll be a tsunami?" Chavo asked.

"You scared of some little water?" Ernesto maliciously teased, "You're starting to sound like-"

"But it's always good to be prepared, right?"

Chavo didn't mean to cut his _tío_ off in the middle of a sentence but the scolding and reprimands were fast becoming annoying.

These two years working for _El Don_ was eye-opening. Not only did he gain experience by working in the field but he became better self-assured and more confident in himself. And with the nurturing guidance of his mother, the thoughtful and encouraging words from the doctor, the advice and training from Ernesto, and the nods of approval from Lex, Chavo knew he was on the right path. But with this new-found confidence, Chavo was more than ready to be respected by his associates. If it meant standing up against Ernesto's constant heckling and ignoring his unsolicited advice, then he was ready to draw a line. No matter how much he loved his _tío_, he didn't want to be Ernesto's sidekick forever. Chavo was ready. He was prepared to be treated like an equal instead of an errand boy.

Yet, despite this new affirmation, he could not stop from cringing as Ernesto shot him a glare. Sighing, thinking Ernesto was justified for being rudely interrupted by a disrespectful nephew, Chavo braced himself.

"Sure is," del Moral cut in though, exasperated at the thought of sitting through another of Ernesto's endless tirades of how Chavo was like the son he never had and on the impracticality of being a killjoy worrywart. "What do you think, Lex?"

Lex did not say anything. In fact, he appeared to be listening to something del Moral could not begin to fathom. The tall man remained silent for a moment before he finally shrugged and said, "It depends on a variety of factors: magnitude, depth, intensity, location, and direction. The chances of a tsunami hitting the Pacific Ocean with an earthquake of this magnitude is minuscule but I wouldn't cancel it out. You can never know what a surprise can bring."

"So..." Chavo hummed, confused by Lex's reply, "Is that a yes or a no?"

"It's a maybe." Del Moral offered with a smile.


	4. El Pueblo

Ch 4: El Pueblo

It was September 29, 2015 at exactly one quarter after nine in the morning and the first thing Doctor del Moral noticed upon exiting the airport was the smell. It wasn't a bad smell though. It was an interesting combination of diesel exhaust- which lingered above the city with the morning fog- of morning showers oxidizing heavy metals, of musty odors rising from oily pavements, and of humans as they single-mindedly boarded tightly packed buses. It was the smell of Clorox as women scrubbed the grime off the walls of their small shops, and of corner vendors selling corn on the comb, tacos, rice, and beans. It was a distinctive scent that brought happy memories of his early youth and he smiled good-naturedly at the young indigenous boy who waved at him frantically towards his father's shoe-shine stall. Not pausing, del Moral instead handed the boy a 500 peso bill and waved him away.

Without debate, Lex took the keys to the rental that waited for them. Not caring who called shotgun, del Moral dumped his luggage into the trunk of the SUV before buckling himself securely as Lex sped through the confusing streets. They did not stop to venture or explore the surrounding area but travelled immediately towards the St. Regis Hotel. No one complained or offered suggestions; Lex knew where he was going and he did not take backseat driving nicely. So the passengers remained silent as Lex drove southwest on Quetzalcoatl into some residential streets before taking the ramp left onto Cto Interior and finally MX-85.

Mexico City appeared the same despite the thirty year gap since del Moral last lived here. Small businesses bordered the highway, one of them with a 'Now Open' sign hanging from a canary-yellow wall covered in graffiti. And del Moral laughed quietly at the eye-opening realization; there were a few things that were always in abundance in Mexico City: advertisements, graffiti, taco stands, cement houses, auto shops, pharmacies and taxi cabs. In other large cities within Mexico, this was true also.

It was an uneventful ten minute ride thanks to Lex's need for speed and del Moral was grateful the American took the steering wheel; even if this trip was strictly business, being a passenger gave him the luxury to re-familiarize himself with the surroundings even if they were but small glimpses as they sped through the streets. He was also thankful that Lex knew how to navigate around the city as the construction of new roads and buildings would have confused del Moral.

A slight turn into Paseo de la Reforma at the intersection with Ave de los Insurgentes brought them into a more affluent neighborhood surrounded by tall commercial office-buildings. A park dividing the highway from the bicycle path stretched for a good many blocks on each side of the avenue, allowing cyclists and pedestrians to enjoy the shade and scenery that the thriving greenery provided.

Through the gaps of leaves and branches, Doctor del Moral gazed upwards at the St. Regis Hotel. Standing at thirty one floors with a rooftop terrace, it was a beautiful building of blues and silvers that stood proudly amongst other equally impressive skyscrapers.

And as they entered the parking lot and were immediately assisted by hotel staff, del Moral wondered about the costs of renting a floor in one of those buildings to begin a private clinic.

"Good morning, gentlemen. How may I help you today?" the woman behind the counter greeted them with a wide smile. With the strong facial features of her indigenous ancestors and the green eyes of European settlers, the woman was the obvious product of two vastly different worlds clashing together. It was a fateful and world-changing meeting but if it produced beautiful creatures like this lady, del Moral was glad for it. Young and extremely attractive, Doctor del Moral wondered if the Hotel hired her specifically for looks but upon seeing the shy gaze she cast at Lex, he guessed the girl was intelligent too.

"I have a deluxe reserved under the name 'Lex'."

"I remember, Mr. Lex." The woman stated quite happily, turning her log book towards the man.

"If you could please sign and date here, and submit your passport for our holding, we can give you the keys to your rooms. If you have any questions or are in need of assistance, please do not hesitate to call the front desk. You may also refer to the directory book and map provided in your suite for directions. Your rooms will be on the twentieth floor, number 130. Enjoy your stay and have a wonderful day, Mr. Lex."

Nodding in thanks, del Moral quickly followed Lex as Chavo and Ernesto exited the lounge area with drinks in their hands.

"Too early to be drinking don't you think?" del Moral asked the duo as they gave approving nods at the splendor of the hotel while the hotel staff wheeled their luggage after them.

"Never too late, doctor." Ernesto replied, "And just so you know, the bar is next to the lounge area if you're craving a drink. Try the Arrogant Bastard Ale when you get the chance; that shit is strong!"

Choosing to remain silent until they entered the privacy of their suite, the group did not speak and only nodded at the staff after their belongings were neatly placed in the living room area.

"_Orale!_" Chavo gushed as he threw himself on the large sofa and flicked the thirty-two inch, high-definition, flat screen on.

"This place has its own kitchen and-" he rose to venture deeper into the suite, "—and TWO bathrooms. Yo, check this out! Nice, huh? I bet the floor costs more than my mom's house!"

"Your mom's house has only two rooms, _chico_." Ernesto reminded.

"I know but it's probably still true, right?"

"Never mind that." Del Moral cut in, unconsciously turning to Lex. "What should we do now?"

"Take a rest." Chavo suggested, turning a hopeful but cautious eye to _El Guero_.

"We can't go to the _hacienda_ until _El Don_ gives us the green light but until then we have jobs to do."

"But-" Ernesto started angrily.

"Doctor, you'll be with me. Ernesto and Chavo, you both know what to do. I suggest a two hour rest before we go our separate ways." Lex stated, the hard glint in his eyes cutting Ernesto short from disputing him.

Del Moral held his breath for the explosion but Ernesto shuffled in agitation and offered no complaints. Sighing in relief, Doctor del Moral nodded and, not quite ready to let an opportunity go to waste, made a beeline towards his room for some well-needed rest.

* * *

Xiocotepec de Juárez was a small town approximately 191 kilometers northeast from Mexico City. Like most towns built in the forests of Mexico's east central region, Xiocotepec de Juarez was made of concrete, cement and dirt. The main road through the city also served as the two-lane highway that trucks, tankers and passenger busses frequently travelled on. Dirt sections near the intersections served as available parking spaces for these large automobiles inevitably making left and right hand turns all the more difficult to execute. With heavy traffic on the two lane road already giving travelers little progress, del Moral sarcastically wondered whose brilliant idea it was to raise a farm of cows so close to civilization.

As poor as it was, it was a thriving little town with constant movement and resting areas for everyday travelers. Lush trees and green vegetation thrived in areas not yet excavated or destroyed, and the northern mountains rose like dark outlines against the blue sky. The scenery was beautiful, del Moral grudgingly admitted even as he choked on the exhaust that momentarily engulfed his vision in darkness. But it was hot, he was sweating, and his temper was running short; it did not help that his foul mood was further compounded by _El Guero's_ composed and undisturbed countenance. Here he was, suffering under the heat of the blazing sun, and _El _Guero remained the cold, steely man.

"Will it be like this till the end of the city limits?" del Moral could not help but gripe bad-naturedly. "We already spent two hours traveling; now we've been waiting for more than half an hour in this traffic jam. Can we _at least_ stretch our legs out and get something to eat?"

As an answer, Lex made a hard left and parked in front of a white and blue two story building. There, a sign that advertised tortas and tacos made with chicken, rabbit, pork, fish and beef, was displayed in large letters. _That was fast,_ del Moral thought as he moved towards the vendor, _he was probably getting annoyed too._

"How long do we plan on staying here?" the doctor asked as he ordered both their meals, "Are we going to stay for the night?"

"We'll stay for the night and until tomorrow afternoon. I don't want to catch anyone's attention more than is required." Lex replied, momentarily gazing at the three grubby children that unsuccessfully hid behind the counter as they gushed about the color of his hair and the paleness of his eyes.

"White people don't come here often, do they?" del Moral laughed at what he imagined was Lex's discomfort in the face of such open admiration.

"I imagine not." The blond haired man agreed, "I'm more concerned that someone will mistake me as a defenseless foreigner and take the opportunity to follow us for ill-intentioned purposes."

_Ah_, _there's that, _del Moral groaned but grinned as his dish was brought forward, "I wouldn't put much thought on it. There are lots of trucks and traffic jams, so that should put space between us. Which reminds me, how long do we have to say on this road?"

"I'll find a different route into the San Pedro road. At the 170 meters mark, we will continue eastward to the excavation site by foot."

"So, what exactly are we going to find in this place?"

"We are to secure the site. _El Don_ believes an object of great value exists and he intends to learn more about it."

"That's not much to go on." Del Moral proclaimed, confused as to why _El Don_ would concern himself with an excavation site that not even a college-affiliated research team has ever heard about. Granted, del Moral knew only the basic history behind the Aztec people and nothing about the existence of long-lost pyramids hidden deep in the rainforests of Mexico. There yet existed ethnic groups of indigenous people who not only spoke the Nahuatl language but who could also trace their roots back to the Aztec Empire; the possibility that the natives kept a historical artifact, or an underground temple, secret was not far-fetched. Maybe _El Don_ did, in fact, make a discovery of historical proportions during a routine business expedition.

"It's not but _El Don_ has his reasons for keeping it low on the radar."

"What if-" the doctor hesitated, "What if this is just another Kinshasha Highway?"

"What do you mean?"

"The Kinshasha Highway. It's a road that begins in the Congo and cuts through Uganda. Some people like to call it the AIDS Highway because once the road was paved, HIV quickly spread throughout the region via prostitutes and travelers."

"What does that have to do with this?"

"I'm saying, what if we bring out something more dangerous? Look at us. We're travelers in a poor country, I saw a few prostitutes walking near the truck stops, the road isn't paved in certain sections, and we're heading off to investigate a tunnel that nobody has ever seen. Who knows what we'll bring out."

"Like a virus?" Lex frowned at the man, "You're afraid of a viral outbreak?"

"A contagious disease should never be taken lightly," the doctor replied defensively at the man's fixated stare.

"You work for a man whose enemies will not hesitate to kill you but you're worried about a virus?" Lex's tone of condescension further humiliating the doctor as he studied the flushed skin of del Moral's cheeks.

"I know it sounds silly but I'm a doctor and I _have _to worry about these things,"

"I have absolutely no intention of engaging in sexual intercourse with you."

"That's… that's not what I meant to insinuate."

"Nevertheless," the man gave a barely susceptible smirk, "I will clarify that our relation is strictly that of professional colleagues working together."

That's the first time he had ever seen _El Guero_ smile.

Nodding towards the parked SUV, Lex pulled out his cell phone, "I suggest you take that stretch while I make reservations for two rooms at a hotel; it's going to be a long journey."

* * *

While Lex and the doctor were somewhere on the northern easternmost region of central Mexico, Ernesto and Chavo were aboard a docked boat in Veracruz. Seated before them was Chuey the Colombian, captain of this modest-sized fishing vessel.

"What do you have for _El Don_?"

"_El Don_ gets a three per cent increase in his share of the profit if he keeps two passages clear for us."

"You're planning on taking a different routes?"

"If the feds have a trap for me, yes; they've been paying closer attention to our boats but with the Asian stock coming in from the east to land in western Mexico their attention will be divided."

"A few hundred bucks here and there will keep the police silent," Ernesto pointed out.

"Yes, but the feds have been taking more risks; they're trying to pin us down. Last time they got on my boat, we had to throw the stash over-board so they couldn't arrest us for drug trafficking; had to send a submarine a few days later to pick up the cargo since we couldn't stay in the area. And yesterday, was a close call too."

"Why? What happened?" Chavo asked with barely contained excitement.

"We saw a ship," the curly haired Colombian began.

"Like a cruise ship?"

"No-"

"A military vessel?"

"The Mexican Navy will be conducting joint sea warfare training with the United States in a few days but this was-" Chuey replied with some annoyance.

"A sailing boat, then?"

Just when Chuey was about to admonish the youngster for his impertinence, he paused "A sailing ship. Not a big one though, this one was medium-sized. It was too dark to see and sailing through the storm made it difficult to verify and identify the vessel by insignia or flag. We didn't know if it was a friendly so we turned off all lights and electronics aboard _La Mojarra_."

"How far was the ship from your location?" the youngster asked with some concern.

"We were twenty miles offshore directly from Veracruz and they were about seven miles north."

"You're good to go, though. Right?" at the clip behind Ernesto's tone, the Colombian quickly reassured.

"_S__í_, the storm dragged that puny thing further up north. If they weren't dragged into the Gulf of Mexico or crashed against a rock-line shore, then they probably sank. Aside from that scare, my cargo is safe for delivery."

"What have you planned?"

"I'm carrying half the cargo right now. This portion will be delivered to Tampico with the Asian stock; the other half will be shipped directly to Culiacan. Once _El Don's_ drug-smugglers transport the package across the border, my distribution operators in Douglas, Arizona and Del Rio, Texas will make sure that the stash is kept safe. I'm using two routes for a cargo instead of one; this is why I offered the three per cent increase for _El Don_."

"I'll make sure that _El _Don receives the offer immediately… You still seeing a strong demand in the northeast?"

"We've been seeing an increase in demand." Chuey grinned, "The usual buyers but the Colombian and Dominican street-level distributors say there's an increase of white, middle class, school-aged punk kids trying it out for fun. They call it 'liberation' or some other crap."

"Bunch of spoiled brats aren't they?"

Slapping his knee, Chuey cackled to the air, "I see what's happening to them and I tell my nephews, 'Oi, don't be such a dumbass; sell it but don't fall for it!'" Chuey turned to the youngster beside him, "That's how I lost a few of my best men. One taste and you spiral down."

Ignoring the nod of acknowledgement sent his direction, Chuey the Colombian turned to Ernesto, "I have a rat."

Perking up at the simple utterance, Ernesto leaned forward at this statement, "Tell me who and I'll take care of it."

Flicking out a pocket knife from the depths of his sweater, Chuey picked at his nails, "_Un indio_."


End file.
